


Mama's Boy

by theunknownfate



Category: Watchmen
Genre: AU, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 06:13:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theunknownfate/pseuds/theunknownfate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a kinkmeme prompt: Those two boys never pick a fight with Walter and Sylvia isn't killed by her pimp.  Walter grows up and lives with his mom. It can't end well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mama's Boy

They ate in silence, like always. The kitchen was not a place for talking.

It had been here that her pimp had confronted her about missing money, had thrown her down, and kicked her. It had been here that Walter, a scrawny kid with clothes long outgrown, had appeared over his shoulder as he bent over her, and smashed the pimp's head in with a hammer borrowed from the supe to fix the bathroom window.

She had lied to the police, saying that the dead man had come to kill her and that her poor baby had tried to save her. The police knew her, some had been customers, but she had been convincingly terrified and her pimp had been no one of consequence, not even worth the paperwork, one said, and the case had been called self-defense and dropped. 

And all the while, the boy had just watched quietly like an alligator with only the eyes visible, waiting for her to make a mistake. Sometimes she woke up and found him staring at her from the foot of the bed. When she spoke to him then, he went blank, like he had been that day swinging the hammer. He still had it. The supe hadn’t wanted it back, even after he washed it. The blankness terrified her. She had hidden under the blankets like she was the child until he left.

The boy didn’t seem to get angry. He just went still and then he snapped. Her customers found that out the hard way. Word got around. They stopped coming. One day when she was drunk she had told him that he would’ve been a better pimp than she had ever had and woke up locked in the closet. He had left her there for three days before she had apologized enough to suit him. 

That was years ago. She knew better now. He was grown, still scrawny, but frighteningly strong. He never actually raised hand to her, but she could feel it coming. She had worked with men long enough to read the signs of tension, what they liked and what they didn’t, what they didn’t want to like, and what they thought they wanted. There was something dangerous brewing up, and she knew if that dam broke there would be no stopping him. So, she behaved as best she could to keep it from being directed at her. She made him breakfast every morning, even it was just cornflakes and powdered milk. She made him a bag lunch to take with him to work. 

She sat with him while he ate, hating every methodical chew, as if he ate slowly just to torment her. Every day she thought about just leaving as soon as he did, but the money was all his. She never saw it. He did all the shopping. She didn’t even have cab fare and she couldn’t get far enough away on foot that he couldn’t find her. And the thought of what he might do then kept her in her seat, in her place, the good mother finally, so attentive to his every whim, even if it was out of fear. 

“Time for work,” he said, like always. She leaped to take his bowl and spoon to the sink so he wouldn’t do it himself. 

“Have a good day, baby,” she said, like always. He gave her one of his inscrutable looks, took the bag she offered, and left without another word. She locked the door behind him, knowing it wouldn’t help.


End file.
